


The Best Sport in the World

by Franzbibliothek



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, Other, Steve selling himself to a rich man for the war effort, set while Steve is still selling war bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzbibliothek/pseuds/Franzbibliothek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is forced to attend a fundraiser party where he realizes that even if he's not fighting there's more he can do for the war effort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Sport in the World

Being Captain America was more like being a show-pony than a movie star. Everyday, Steve was fed, brushed, taken to his allocation lessons, and then paraded around the theater. A part of Steve rebelled against the indignity of being told where to go and what to do, but at the end of the day it wasn’t all that different from basic training. He was doing some good at least. 

What sort of good was sometimes vague, particularly when Steve was asked to trade in his tights for a tuxedo, and spend an evening being an ornament at some local big event. At these things, there was never anyone who wanted their comic books signed. 

Instead, Senator Brandt made him shake an allotted number of hands: the bankers, the company presidents, the politicians. The local press would swarm about like frogs, darting their tongues, trying to catch the juiciest story of the evening. 

Steve would then, one on each arm, lift two volunteers off the ground. There would be enthusiastic applause and Senator Brandt would make a speech. It was a good speech, full of call backs to the founding fathers freeing themselves from tyranny and the duty of the US to now be the arsenal of the free world. The sort of speech meant to arouse patriotic fervor in even the most iron-fisted capitalist. Steve had heard it over a dozen times. 

His parlor trick over, Steve would stand in some unobtrusive corner, trying not to wear off his novelty, an untouched drink in his hand, a bored assistant at his elbow, probably with orders to make sure Steve didn ’t make a mess. There was little danger of that. Any moment, Steve feared, he would be discovered to be nothing more than a donkey in a lion costume and torn limb from limb. Usually, he would remain in this corner until he was allowed to go back to the hotel. 

Tonight though, the script changed. The minder jabbed Steve in the side with an elbow.  “That’s Mr. Rainsford.” He pointed to someone just entering the room: a tall man, graying at the temples, wearing a well-tailored tuxedo, looking like any number of gentlemen already schmoozing about. 

“He’s going to donate a million dollars to the war effort, and he asked to meet you specifically.” Steve’s body froze at the naming of such a sum. “You should go thank him.” The last sentence was accompanied by a light shove.

Steve, feeling like some creature who had just learned to walk, barely avoided running into a waiter, stepping instead on the train of some woman ’s gown, the owner of which glared at him, a classically lovely face set in a snarl, her teeth bared. Steve stepped back, intending to apologize, bumping into a man behind him, causing this man to drop the glass he had been gesticulating with, swearing, the man called over a waiter, a waiter hurried to clean the mess, shooting Steve an unspeakably condescending look. After a fervent apology, Steve fled to the other side of the room, making it to the wall, creeping along it to avoid any further unintentional destruction. 

He soon spotted Mr. Rainsford talking with a small group of people, the drink in his hand already half gone. Now, Steve found himself at a loss. Did Steve simply pounce and ambush this man with his well wishes? Mr. Rainsford had asked for Captain America specifically. Maybe Steve could hum a few bars of the song, like a singing telegram?

While Steve debated with himself, Mr. Rainsford turned and noticed him. With a word to his companions he approached with no hesitation, swaying slightly, his eyes set on Steve, like some big cat on the prowl.  “Hello there,” he drawled, his face cracked into a grin revealing an impressive set of large white teeth. “You look different outside that costume.” His eyes slowly flickered down and then back up. 

Steve attempted a smile.  “I’m just here to thank you —  for helping the war effort. ” Steve said because one million dollars could help a lot of people. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Captain,” Mr. Rainsford said, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders, guiding him to the circle of people he had been speaking to, looking all the while at Steve like he was a precious kitten. 

“This is Mr. Zaroff, my business partner, and Mrs. Moreau. My friends, this is Captain America,” he said. Both were middle-aged, Mr. Zaroff older than Mr. Rainsford, but broad and fit. Mrs. Moreau was a thin woman whose white gown and spectacles gave her a surgeon-like appearance. 

“So, you’re that strongman?” Mr. Zaroff asked, but seem more preoccupied with waving over another drink.

“Oh! I just saw your show, just the other day! It was wonderful, my niece wouldn’t stop talking about it. It is so good of you, the work you’re doing. My Jimmy is over in England right now,” Mrs. Moreau said.

Now, at least, they were back on script.  “It really isn’t anything, Ma’am. Your Jimmy is the real hero, and men like Mr. Rainsford here,” Steve nodded at the man in question. “Who is helping the war effort out of his own pocket.”

“Just doing my patriotic duty.” Mr. Rainsford said, taking a sip from his glass. His eyes were on Steve, bright and intent. Steve fiddled with his champagne glass, as if his lines might have been pasted on there.

“So, what do you do, Mr. Rainsford?” Steve asked. 

“Oh, this and that. A bit of law, a bit of trade, whatever presents itself. And what do you do, Mr. Captain America? I mean, when you’re not punching Hitler? Or is that a military secret?” Mr. Rainsford asked, Mrs. Moreau tittled and Mr. Zaroff seemed increasing frustrated by the lack of service he was receiving from the waiters.

The show ’s break-neck schedule left little time for hobbies. 

The only time Steve truly had to himself was when the lights were out and everybody was asleep. It was during these times that Steve discovered two things about the effect of the serum. first, that his body needed considerably less rest than most people. Second, he could replay his own memories with amazing accuracy; almost as if they were occurring once again, right in front of him. 

The old standard by now was Dr. Erskine ’s assassination. It was one of the first things he experienced with this new body. Steve’s new enhanced senses allowed him to take in perfectly the slow throb of the Doctor’s pulse, the death pallor of his face, the smell of fresh blood sickly slipping into Steve’s throat. Now, all of that could be experienced at will for Steve’s own perusal. 

When he grew sick of memories, Steve found that he could also compose scenes from his own imagination, and what they lacked in realism, Steve tried to make up for with creativity. So, he spent so many of those lonely hours pondering the likely fate of Agent Carter. 

For all he knew she was on some secret mission right now. Maybe, she would be gunned down like Dr. Erskine. Perhaps, she could be run over by a get-away vehicle like she almost was just outside the lab. Even now, wasn ’t it possible, that she was captured and being tortured for information before being shot like a dog and tossed into a river missing fingers and toes?

Or, if he was feeling nostalgic, there was always Bucky who could die in a whole host of awful ways. A childhood spent devouring every war story the old men of the neighborhood loved to tell, supplied Steve with all sorts of details to prevent him from ever being bored, during those odd moments he had to himself. Bucky choking on poison gas, buried alive in his foxhole, bleeding out alone stuck on barb wire, or shitting himself to death in a hospital tent while orderlies hovered to steal his boots. 

But, all of this seemed like something better left unshared with strangers.

“I sketch a little, I guess.” 

“Huh.” Mr. Rainsford said, then he turned to his friend. “Remember, Zaroff, hunting lions in Africa?”

“Now, that was something you don’t just forget!” Mr. Zaroff said, before taking an enthusiastic sip from a newly refreshed wine glass. “I remember it like just the other day, there was that ten-foot long male, monstrous thing, nearly knocked you from the saddle.”

“Oh, it was eleven feet long at least, give me some credit, my friend! It never would have snuck up on us that way if that native guide hadn’t— But little matter, I bested it in the end. All it took was a rifle to the muzzle to teach it its place in the animal kingdom!” Mr. Rainsford sighed, “Those were the days.” 

“Yes, far better than now. Now, guides bring you out to some pitiful creature they’ve already tied up for you to shoot. It’s not really hunting, it’s just putting them out of their misery,” Mr. Zaroff said, shaking his head. 

“Here, here! You know, once these Huns have been put down I fully intend to head down to the Amazon. I’ve been told that those jaguars down there are the most challenging beasts to hunt. The Aztecs even worshiped them as gods!” Mr. Rainsford took this as an opportunity to lean in and press himself against Steve’s side. “There is nothing I find more exhilarating, my Captain, than dominating the world’s strongest and most beautiful creatures.” He pulled away to finish the last of his drink. 

“You often go overseas, then?” Steve said, ignoring the flush he could feel creeping up his neck.

“Yes, unfortunately more for business than pleasure, nowadays. There is nothing for it, ever since we’ve elected that red into office. He keeps encouraging all these workers to strike, disrupting honest business.” Steve bit sharply on his tongue. One million dollars, he reminded himself.

“It’s a disgrace, an utter disgrace, is what it is.” Mrs. Moreau chimed in, pulling her fur wrap more tightly around herself. “My husband is barely making ends meet as it is and these greasy apes come in demanding more pay for less work, like it’s their God given right.”

Mr. Zaroff made a disgusted noise.  “He should fire the ungrateful wretches.” 

“Oh, that’s what I said, I swear I must have told him a dozen times, but then the rest of them start threatening to sit-down and strike. I honestly don’t know where they get the nerve. Maybe I should have Captain America come by and remind them who he real enemy is.” She said, smiling very hard.

“Strikes sound like a difficulty.” Steve said. One million dollars, one million dollars, how many supplies could be bought with that? How many bullets, and bacon, and bandages?

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Mr. Rainsford said, shaking his head wearily. “I thought I was positively ruined until this war started up. Now, I’ve recouped my losses and then some. It’s unfortunate and all yes, but I must admit: a little conflict is good for the bottom line, as my father always used to say.”

“I’m not sure the French would agree,” Steve said.

Mr. Rainsford raised an eyebrow, but his mouth curled into an indulgent half-smile.  “Of course, Captain.” He tugged on Steve’s arm, drawing them away from his friends, who were now comparing notes on the best practices of union breaking. “However, I think we can say that this war has been rather lucrative, for the both of us.” His eyes raked up and down Steve’s body, his hand squeezed Steve’s bicep.

“I’m just doing my patriotic duty.” Steve said, woodenly. 

“You know, I do believe you’re worth another fifty grand to the war effort.” Mr. Rainsford said in a low voice. “If, that is, you’d be willing to give me a private performance of your show.”

The world seemed to pause as Steve took in the meaning of Mr. Rainsford ’s suggestion. “I’m not sure it would be much fun without all the girls.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can manage to hold my interest just by yourself,” Mr. Rainsford said, his voice as slick as snake-oil. 

Through a haze Steve took in his surroundings. All the ladies were in silks and gloves and all the men were in suits and scarves. The waiters here were dressed up finer than anyone back in Steve ’s old neighborhood. Even Mr. Rainsford’s champagne-soaked breath against his cheek spoke of ease and opulence. 

Yet, it all somehow seemed less real than the grainy impressions of the front given by the newsreels. Steve thought of Bucky in Africa, freezing in the arid night. Never stated, but implied in his constant requests for socks. How many men had died because they didn ’t have the right equipment? How many were going to die because the hospitals weren’t stocked well enough? Now, Steve understood his reason for being here. 

“You know, I think I’m worth at least another hundred-thousand.” Steve said, which after all wasn’t inaccurate. He had been struck dumb when Dr. Erskine had explained to him some of the costs involved in Project Rebirth. 

Mr. Rainsford burst out laughing, the companionable hand on Steve ’s back sliding downward. 

“Get a load of you, huh? Alright, kid, lets make it half a million, while we’re at it. Come on.” With an exaggerated drunken gait Mr. Rainsford clung to Steve like he was the only thing keeping him upright. This obscured the fact that one of his hands was firmly on Steve’s behind. They made their way to Senator Brandt who was holding court with his own circle of yes-men and sycophants. 

“Hey! Brandt, I’ll change my gift to one million and five hundred thousand smackers if you let Captain America here escort me to my car.” 

Senator Brandt didn ’t even blink at the offer. “Of course Mr. Rainsford, Captain America is always happy to help. Thank you for your contribution.” There were smug, knowing smiles all around. Steve could already read it as a throw away line in the society papers the next day: Captain America helps intoxicated man get home safely.

Mr. Rainford dropped any illusion of drunkenness as they approached his car, pushing his chauffeur out the way, he opened the door.  “Come on in, lamb,” he said, flashing his large white teeth again. The resigned look in the chauffeur’s eyes told Steve that he was hardly the first young blond Mr. Rainsford had helped into his car. 

Half an hour later, Mr. Rainsford had Steve pushed up against a hotel door, unbuttoning his shirt.  “Let’s get you out of this monkey suit,” Mr. Rainsford said, and in his haste he pulled off some of the buttons. Mr. Rainsford laughed at the damage and threw the shirt carelessly behind him as he stared intently at what lay underneath. The agony of bones breaking and re-breaking while trapped in a steel coffin, didn’t figure into his naked admiration. He dragged a firm hand across the bare flesh, like a horseman inspecting his purchase. Then he brought it back up Steve’s chest and a firm hand closed around his throat. “Look at you sweetheart, I could just chain you up to my bed. I’d feel like the damn Sheik of Persia!”

“I’m afraid that would be another million dollars.” Steve said, and Mr. Rainsford absolutely howled.

“The mouth on you, honey. We gotta do something about it.” Mr. Rainsford said, as he made Steve bend down. With his free hand Mr. Rainsford fiddled with the front clasp of his trousers before finally drawing his cock out. He stroked it a few times to help it get hard. 

A part of Steve told him that for over a million dollars he was probably expected to give a hand, but most of Steve wanted to be nowhere near it or Mr. Rainsford in general. The choice was taken away from him when Mr. Rainsford clutched a handful of hair and tugged Steve ’s face down onto his cock. 

The first intrusion almost had Steve gagging from the unexpected taste alone. With the next few thrusts Steve had to close his eyes to concentrate on stopping his growing impulse to simply bite down and run away. Soon, saliva was running disgustingly down his chin, and Mr. Rainsford loomed above him, twisting his meaty hands in Steve ’s hair calling him a sweet kitten and a perfect cocksucker. 

Steve had no clue what he was doing, but for the first time of the evening, Steve imagined that was somewhat the point. 

With a cry, Mr. Rainsford pushed Steve ’s head down, ramming his cock down Steve’s throat, mashing Steve’s nose painfully against the metal fasteners of Mr. Rainsford’s trousers. Then he pulled Steve back using his ears as handles and thrust again, holding Steve there so that Steve could feel the fleshy obstruction in his throat. He could feel the way the dick throbbed like it had its own pulse. Only the self-control gleaned from years of unpalatable things being forced into Steve’s mouth kept him from vomiting. 

Mr. Rainsford must have gotten too excited because he quite sharply pulled Steve ’s head back, nearly taking out a clump of hair in the process. 

“Alright, Mr. USA, let’s see what I’m paying for,” he panted, pulling Steve up only to push him face-first down onto the bed, pressing a thigh between his legs. 

This was whole thing was objectively ridiculous. It would take nothing at all for Steve, in this miracle body, to simply buck this foul man off and walk away. He could keep on doing shows and selling war bonds and no one could ask any more from him than that. Just like how he could have walked away from Dr. Erskine and collected scrap metal in his little red wagon.

Mr. Rainsford ’s hands were trying to pull down Steve’s drawers, stymieing his own efforts by rutting against Steve’s behind, his cock still wet with Steve’s spit. “I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you bleed, lamb,” he drawled in Steve’s ear. 

Steve stared at the wall, imagining Bucky, safe and sound, in his tent with thick socks and a new bedroll.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a weekly theme challenge sort of on the fly, and liked the conceit that I could shove as many animal references as I wanted. Otherwise this has no redeeming value and is the product of an my id.


End file.
